Metal creaked, then gave way. The chain grew slack in his hands and fell away with a rush. For an instant, Connor fell, too.
He never figured out whether he reacted out of survival instinct or whether the Wraith Lord knew what to do, but his arms and legs thrust out, stopping his fall by bracing himself against the narrow stone walls. His howl of pain echoed up the rock tower, but despite his shaking limbs, his body did not buckle. Biting into his lip so hard he tasted blood, the Wraith Lord began to inch his way back up the tower.
At the top of the tower, they found the remains of a platform used by long-ago bell ringers. Its heavy planks had been treated in pitch to withstand the elements, and Connor heaved himself onto it, praying to all the gods that it would not give way beneath his weight. For a moment, he lay still, gasping for breath, shaking from head to toe. Then he gathered his wits and crawled on all fours to where he could see the horizon.
We’re going to fire that arrow with the white powder into the pond, the Wraith Lord instructed.
“Are you mad? I can’t hit that from here!” Connor protested.
I can.
Connor fought down his instincts and took a deep breath. He mentally stepped back so the Wraith Lord could take full possession of his movements without distraction. With a skill and grace born of lifetimes of practice, the Wraith Lord armed the crossbow and took aim. Relegating himself to a corner of his mind, Connor watched as the Wraith Lord sighted the target and squeezed the trigger, grabbing for a handhold with faster-than-mortal speed as the crossbow’s kick nearly sent them tumbling to the stone floor far below.
Prepare! The Wraith Lord’s voice warned. Connor stared after the quarrel, utterly confused.
“Prepare for what?”
The Wraith Lord threw Connor down and covered his head with his arms. The arrow dipped beneath the surface of the pond, carrying the burlap bag filled with the powder cake. A heartbeat later, the pond exploded with a loud boom, sending a wave of water over the banks, dousing the flames in a large area.
Connor was still reeling from the shock, but the Wraith Lord had readied the regular bow and one of the pitch-soaked arrows. The Wraith Lord got to his knees, drew the bow once more, and let the arrow fly. Connor felt the Wraith Lord’s deep satisfaction in the sheer physical ability to handle the weapon. He loosed the rest of the arrows in quick succession, aiming for the nearest of the two oil wagons. The arrow’s flames stuttered and flickered for a moment on the old, oil-soaked wood, then the cask itself caught fire, and its keepers raised a shout, scrambling to get clear. With a roar, the cask exploded into a shower of oil that engulfed the wagons and splattered nearby soldiers with flaming liquid.
That’s enough of that, the Wraith Lord said. Now to get down.
“I’m with you on that one,” Connor murmured. The Wraith Lord seized the stronger of the remaining two chains, winding his legs around it. Then he slid down the chain, barking the skin on his palms, as Connor’s injured shoulder and thigh threatened to black him out. At last, he dropped to the ground and fell once more as his leg buckled on him.
Let me handle this. The Wraith Lord shrugged out of the bows and dropped the quiver, drawing Connor’s sword. The fight isn’t over yet.
Buoyed by the Wraith Lord’s power, sustained by the stamina from his strengthened bond with Penhallow, the Wraith Lord ran into the courtyard, sword raised. Billows of black smoke rose from where the oil casks had exploded. Voss had sent thirty men to protect Mirdalur; to Connor’s relief, he could see most of them on their feet and fighting. Hennoch’s soldiers might have outnumbered the mercenaries, but from the corpses Connor counted on the ground, the mercenaries were doing better than holding their own.
“Let’s send these sons of Raka straight to the Sea of Souls!” the Wraith Lord shouted with Connor’s voice, wading into the fray.
If the soldier the Wraith Lord attacked estimated the skill of his opponent by judging Connor’s appearance, he was in for a rude shock. On the battlefield, Connor gave up all semblance of control, watching the battle unfold while his body moved of its own volition. Centuries of the Wraith Lord’s existence as talishte had made him a battle-hardened warrior, exulting in the fight, ruthless in his tactics. Now that skill animated Connor’s body, moving him with utter confidence, making him oblivious to pain, besting his opponent in just a few merciless strokes.
Two more enemy soldiers came at Connor, and the Wraith Lord laughed. It was a cold, harsh sound without pity. Blood spattered Connor’s face and arms as the Wraith Lord swung at the first soldier, slashing him across the chest. They pivoted, blocking a swing from the second soldier as the Wraith Lord drew the knife from Connor’s belt, fighting two-handed with a skill Connor knew he could never hope to muster himself.
The Wraith Lord possessed talishte speed and strength. His hapless opponents realized too late that Connor was not what he appeared.
“By Torven! What are you? You fight like a biter, in the daylight!” one of the men swore as he found himself parrying frantically.
“I am your executioner,” the Wraith Lord muttered through gritted teeth. He delivered a series of bone-jarring swings, coming at the soldier faster than the man could react. One swing bit deeply into the man’s shoulder, letting his sword arm hang by a shred of sinew. The next swing severed his head. Then with a dizzyingly quick pivot, the Wraith Lord scythed the blade toward the second soldier and lunged, taking him through the heart.
Connor’s arms were blood-soaked to the elbows, and blood spattered his hair and face. The Wraith Lord grinned, reveling in the familiar cadence of battle, rejoicing in the sensuality of having a physical body. And to Connor’s concerned amazement, he did not feel as utterly spent as he expected from the possession.
Penhallow told you; you’re harder to kill now. Not quite human—something more.
That would bear thinking through on another day, but for the moment, Connor accepted the boon. He stood surrounded by corpses, breathing hard. Soot mingled with sweat and blood running in rivulets down his face. Despite the cold, his shirt clung to his back. As far as he could tell, little of the blood was his own, except for his leg, which hurt like a son of a bitch.
The battle had turned. The casks’ explosion had taken several of the enemy soldiers, coating them in oil and setting them ablaze. Voss’s mercenaries dealt out a harsher reception than Hennoch’s soldiers expected, and Connor’s sudden appearance, along with the Wraith Lord’s deadly prowess, helped to change the odds. Only a handful of the attackers remained on the field. The Wraith Lord and the mercenaries ran the stragglers down. Hennoch’s soldiers, knowing they were going to die, fought with insane fury, desperate to inflict damage.
I would have been mincemeat, Connor thought. Without the Wraith Lord’s possession, he had gained enough skill with a sword to hold off an attacker of average ability, but never in a lifetime did Connor expect to acquire the Wraith Lord’s deadly grace and speed.
Which is why I’m doing the fighting, the Wraith Lord replied. He swung once more, bringing his blade down with a powerful swing that cleaved his attacker from shoulder to hip.
All around them, the bloodied courtyard had grown quiet. Black smoke still drifted in the wind, but the flames had been washed away or stamped out, so that they posed no threat to those inside the manor’s cellars. Voss’s men made their way across the battlefield, slitting throats. To one side, the oil wagons’ flames guttered like a spent candle.
“Good fighting. I didn’t expect that from you.” Annik, the commander of Voss’s soldiers, strode up to Connor. “By Torven! You’re injured.”
“I’ll probably live,” Connor said, though as the Wraith Lord withdrew some of his control, the pain returned in a blinding flash. “How did your men fare?”
Annik shrugged. “Lost a couple. Voss will be sending reinforcements soon. Still, hate to bury any of my men. But they made the enemy pay, and there’s no shame in that,” he said, looking out over the bodies that littered the ground. The glint
in his eyes and the set of his mouth told Connor that Annik was no stranger to battle.
“Do you think they’ll be back? Hennoch’s men?” Connor asked, looking toward the still-smoking oil wagons.
Annik shrugged. “If not him, someone else. Good thing, too, or my men and me would be out of a job.” He walked away, chuckling at his own joke, stepping over bodies and shouting orders to his men.
You did well, Bevin, the Wraith Lord’s voice echoed in Connor’s mind. Now I will get you to safety, and leave you once I am assured of your care. I think you’ll find the recovery to be a bit easier than in the past.
Limping so badly that his injured leg dragged, Connor stumbled toward the keep and the tunnels below. One of Voss’s soldiers spotted him and ran to support him under one shoulder, helping him to the shelter of the ruined first floor as the full extent of Connor’s injuries began to make themselves felt.
“We need a healer!” the soldier shouted, waving for one of Voss’s battle healers to attend. As the healer headed toward him, the Wraith Lord slipped free of Connor’s body. To Connor’s surprise, he was not burning up with fever from hosting the spirit, and his heart was not pounding dangerously, though every muscle and sinew in his body seemed to burn and he was light-headed from the blood loss.
Harder to kill. Not quite mortal, Connor thought. This will take some getting used to.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-FIVE
MASTER QUINTREL! WE’VE CAUGHT A SPY.”
Vigus Quintrel glanced up as a guard came to the doorway of the study at Torsford. Carensa and Guran, who were conferring with Quintrel, turned to see the newcomer.
“Where did you find this spy?” Quintrel asked.
“Prowling the edge of the camp. Do you want us to interrogate him, or just kill him?”
With a sigh, Quintrel stood. He set his drink aside, and cast a lingering glance toward the fire before turning toward the guard. “Bring him to me. I’ll decide.”
A few moments later, two guards returned, dragging their unconscious prisoner. A tall young man with muddy-brown hair slumped between the guards, bound at the wrists and ankles. From the blood on his shirt and the dirt on his trousers, Carensa guessed that he did not go down easily. One of the guards reached down to grab the prisoner’s hair and pull back his head so Quintrel could see him.
An unexpected resemblance made Quintrel hesitate. Carensa caught her breath, trying to muffle a gasp of recognition.
“Esban,” he said, calling to his second-in-command, “does he remind you of anyone?”
Esban studied the prisoner’s features. “If I didn’t know better, I’d guess he might be related to Blaine McFadden.”
Quintrel turned to Carensa. “You knew the McFaddens well. Do you recognize him?”
Carensa fought down panic, hoping she could keep her voice even. “I don’t know, Vigus. It’s been so long. People change and he’s young. I can’t say for certain.”
Quintrel’s look told her that he was sure she was holding back. “Let’s play this a little differently, shall we?” Quintrel mused aloud. “Take him up to the guest rooms—one with bars on the windows. I’ll have a servant bring up wash water and a fresh change of clothing. Cut him loose, but keep a guard on the door. When he comes around, tell him to clean up and get dressed. He’ll be my guest at dinner tonight.” He turned and leveled a gaze at both Carensa and Guran. “And so will you.”
A puzzled look passed between the guards, but they did as they were told. The prisoner hung limply in their grasp, but Carensa could not tell whether the young man was playacting or was still unconscious. The door closed behind the guards, and Quintrel turned to Carensa and Guran.
“I’ll want your help interrogating the prisoner,” he said offhandedly. “He may be no one of importance. In which case, executing him won’t matter to anyone. But he might be valuable to us, either for what he knows or for who he is. And I am going to find that out.”
“We can help,” Guran said smoothly. Carensa nodded, avoiding meeting Quintrel’s gaze directly. “But perhaps we should go back to the workroom with the information we were discussing before the interruption. Let us get cleaned up before dinner.”
Quintrel gave a curt nod. “Go on. I’ll send someone for you.”
Carensa realized she was holding her breath when they reached the hallway, but she said nothing, trying to force herself to remain calm as she and Guran made their way back to the workroom.
“I’m not feeling well,” she said, knowing Guran could see her distress. “I need to lie down before dinner.”
“I’ll convey Vigus’s instructions to the mages, and stop by with some tea,” he replied, with a knowing look that let her know he recognized her distress.
Carensa made her way through the hallways with her head down, not wanting to attract attention. She let herself into her room and collapsed against the door. Tears started, and a sob welled up in her throat. “Oh, Carr,” she murmured. “What have you gotten yourself into?”
Several candlemarks later, Quintrel waited in the parlor along with Carensa and Guran. A private dinner had been set for four on a small table. Guards waited in the shadows. Quintrel wore one of his scholar’s robes, embroidered with runes and inlaid with velvet and silk to show his rank. Carensa and Guran had worn clean but unpretentious work robes.
Two guards escorted the prisoner to the parlor. He looked to be in his late teens, but hard work and battle had put muscles on his long limbs. Carensa wondered if Quintrel could even question his decided resemblance to Ian McFadden.
“Won’t you join us for dinner?” Quintrel invited, gesturing to the table. Rostivan’s steward had set out a meal of venison, roasted beets and turnips, bread pudding with dried fruit, and a carafe of brandy. It was a rare feast these days, and hunger was clear in the prisoner’s eyes.
Warily, Carr made his way to the table. His gaze flickered to the guards who stood silently in the darkened corners of the room, and he did not miss the click of the lock as his escort locked the door behind them. Then he saw Carensa, and he froze, though she kept her face impassive.
Don’t say anything, she thought. It will be worse for both of us if you do.
“Sit, please.” Quintrel seated himself and gestured for the others to do the same. With a flourish, Quintrel placed a napkin on his lap. A steward appeared to fill their plates from the serving platters. The steward poured them each a goblet of brandy before retreating from sight.
“I don’t believe you came to pay a social call,” Quintrel said. His voice was cordial, but there was threat beneath the civility.
“The manor is quite nice,” Carr replied with a half smile that said he knew they were playing a game. “But I don’t believe you’re the original owner.”
“You’re correct. This was better suited to our needs,” Quintrel replied. He cut a piece of meat and ate it. “Please, eat. If I intended to poison you, I wouldn’t have wasted good venison on it.”
Perhaps Carr figured that he was unlikely to leave alive, no matter which scenario played out, or maybe he was just hungry. He made short work of the food on his plate and allowed the steward to fill it a second time, though he merely sipped his brandy. Does he figure this for a last meal? Carensa wondered. If so, he’s quite cool about it.
“I want to know who you are,” Quintrel said.
Carr sipped his drink. “No one important.”
Quintrel’s smile was taut. “Let me be the judge of that.” Quintrel barely moved his hand, but Carr froze in his seat, eyes panicked. Another moment, and Carr’s hands went to his temples.
“Get out of my head!” Carr managed, though his words ended in a gasp of pain.
Carensa’s hands gripped her chair, and she bit her lip until it bled. I can’t challenge Vigus, not directly. And if he believes I favor Carr, I’ll have no chance to help Carr—or Blaine. Gods above, I hate this!
“Carr McFadden,” Quintrel said, leaning back with a look of satisfaction. The divi orb glowe
d brightly on its strap around Quintrel’s neck. Carensa did not doubt that the divi had enjoyed the pain Quintrel had caused. Carr shook his head, pale and angry. “Did your brother send you?”
“No. I came on my own.” Carr replied. His voice was insolent.
“I could have warned you that showing up unexpected might lead to a less than friendly reception.”
Carr must not have gone down without a fight, Carensa thought. One eye was darkening to purple, looking swollen and sore. His lip was split, and his knuckles were scratched and red. From the stiff way he had walked to his chair, she guessed that he had taken a thorough pummeling, perhaps even some bruised or broken ribs. Still, he was handling the situation like a seasoned courtier. Or an utter madman. Knowing his father, either was possible.
“Carensa, can you confirm what I’ve read from him? Is this really Carr McFadden?”
Carensa met Carr’s eyes, wishing that her gift were telepathy, willing him not to speak out of turn. “I told you, Vigus, it’s been years. Maybe. I don’t know.”
Quintrel’s expression suggested that he was reserving judgment. “Why did you come here?” he asked Carr. “I’m sure you know your brother and I aren’t on friendly terms.”
“Just curious, I guess,” Carr replied evenly.
“Did it occur to you that our archers might have shot you on sight? Or that the guards might have hanged you as a spy without asking questions?” Quintrel pressed.
For the first time, Carr met his level gaze. “I have stared down the maw of gryps and looked into the mouth of Raka when the Great Fire fell. Pardon my saying so, but not much scares me after that.”
What would Ian’s madness coupled with Blaine’s courage produce? Carensa wondered. Meeting Carr’s gaze, she thought she might have the answer.
“There’s not much left for you at Glenreith, is there?” Quintrel said offhandedly. “I mean, things started to fall apart when Blaine was exiled, and it’s never really recovered. At least you had the title—”
War of Shadows: Book Three of the Ascendant Kingdoms Saga Page 38